The Wish I Wish Tonight
by Rosaria Marie
Summary: A collection of vignettes and drabbles dealing with the wheelchair-bound Severus Snape adjusting to his new situation as a member of the Potter household and learning to love again, spanning the time between the events of "Broth of Venom" and "All in the Family", as well as stretching beyond them. Angst. Fluff. Hurt/Comfort. Tissues. (NOTE: CURRENTLY ON HIATUS)
1. Vignette 1: Unsung Lullaby

Vignette 1: Unsung Lullaby

Severus Snape, the dungeon bat, still found the basement the safest place to be. It was interior and deeply dug, somewhat chilly, cut off from the world. It suited him to a tee. But he could not forget that this time round he was not a prestigious staff member with sleeping quarters at a school in session, but rather a "mercy case", an intruding "guest", an invalid with no one else willing to help him but two of his own least-loved former students.

Wheelchair bound, and wracked by post-traumatic stress attacks, he found himself far too often in the worst kind of pain. And although he hated the reality of it, he found himself afraid of being alone. He had always relished being alone, and made it his safety and his pride, but now he often felt it closing in on him and taunting him like a worthless insect trapped in too much webbing, unable to move or free himself.

But he wasn't all alone now, and it beset him with mixed emotions. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had wed, and seemed to be a very happy couple. They'd been best friends forever and a day, so he supposed they were used to each other well enough, even though he had long found them nigh unbearable. But now somehow or other, through a twist of fate, the young pair had saved him from the streets or an institution by giving him a home in the basement of their new house. At least he had his own floor to function on for the most part, even though Hermione Granger Potter was now acting as his would-be-nurse.

He should hate it, hate taking any help and being needy and beholden, and sometimes he did, but at the same time he knew, deep in the heart of himself, that he needed help, and no one else would give it to him. They'd let him die before they'd bother touching him. He might snark, or yell, or complain, or bad-mouth all the help he was getting, but he knew he was too ill in body and mind to help himself. He needed it and sometimes even perversely craved it. He had known so very little of kindness his whole life, the offering of it now confused him. Its presence was the only thing that kept his own depression from killing him.

Often enough in those early days Snape snapped at her, all petty insults and snarling temperament, as she was trying to help him learn to handle his chair or assure that he took his medication. His eyes would be dark and beady then, and he'd call her a stupid, know-it-all brat trying to make herself feel good or gain credit points by patronizing him. Hermione Granger would then tell him off as a mean-minded git who cared for no one but himself. He would tell her to go away, and she would tell him she just might never come back, and he'd blurt out that he didn't care.

Then often enough at the end of such a trying day, she would find him in the dark of his basement, the fit of passion drained out of him, all quiet and trembly after hours of being alone, like a puppy with large, questioning eyes, waiting for some punishment he thought he deserved. He watched her, silently, stoically, seeming to expect someone to inflict him a hurt for lashing out, preparing to take the pain as he'd taken almost everything, on the chin, as par for the course, and of his own making. He deserved it, and he would take it. He wasn't a coward…but it _still hurt inside_.

Then when she'd go to help him from the wheelchair into his bed, as her conscience bade her do for all his deserving to be ignored, he would look abashed, hesitate in his movements, and be awkward about touching her, accidently putting his weight all wrong as a result, and straining her shoulder. Then she would scold him for it, and he'd absorb it in silence for a long time, sitting up on the side of the bed like a little boy with a scolding mother.

And then, like the trauma victim that he was, he'd inevitably twitch against a tremor up his spine. He always fought to stop himself, to hide his trembling from her sight, to force back the sudden tears or dry sobs that made no sense, to bite his lip hard enough to stop the stammer. He only frustrated himself and always failed. The memories would punch through him all the same, and with them, a flood of remorse and self-hate.

And then, strangest phenomena of all, he would try to apologize, it seemed, for his very existence. "F-forgive…forgive…m-me…"

It was as sincere as it was shattering, and it always seemed he doubted she would forgive him for what he was, for what he kept lapsing into, for a lifetime of shelter behind a wall of bitterness, criticism, and fits of mood. He'd known too many people who would not. He'd become afraid of asking in his fragility, afraid of the day that would surely come, when he'd be slammed down and thrown out and he'd have to take it, like he took everything else, fighting for some dying vestige of pride to keep him from breaking apart into so many little pieces.

But Hermione always seemed to find it in her heart to open herself to him again. She'd sigh, and shake her head, and then if she felt he needed it, she'd open up her arms and hold him till he stopped shaking and his nervous panic subsided. God knew he was the last person on earth she would ever have thought in need of hugging for all the years she had been his student.

Even now, he hardly ever hugged back, although sometimes she sensed he was debating it with his trembling good hand extending a ways from her back. But it was as if he was starved, constantly afraid of eating the bread, crumb by blessed crumb, because then it would be all gone and he'd be alone and hated again. He was terrified of having the kindness revoked, or being charged some price of pain for it, or being thrust away for presuming his touch would be welcome instead of viewed as poisonous.

So he usually just basked in the moment of being held, burying his face in her shoulder till the flash of horrific memories of beatings, bullying, and betrayal, of sorcerers, snakes, and shadows subsided, and his tears dried on the softness of her sweater. And he felt love melting his pride and soothing his fear, like an unsung lullaby. And he could fall asleep feeling safe and forgiven. And that was all that mattered.


	2. Vignette 2: Wedding Album

Vignette 2: Wedding Album

As time passed, Snape began to ease into his new life, ever so slowly. Even though he continued to struggle with the help he now received from Hermione, they had their good days as well as their tense ones. At the very least, he was starting to act more like himself, or at least some form of himself.

This usually consisted of a comfortable little game of snark and counter-snark with his young hosts, but at least with Hermione, their wits seemed fairly well-matched for it, and they both seemed to gradually come to enjoy the play. At least it represented some vague sense of normality, in a world turned so upside-down.

While Hermione and Harry began to take courses online to further their education for use in the muggle world, starting slowly to give themselves enough space to simply catch up on living, Snape began to explore the possibility of contributing to the household income himself. Although Harry's inheritance from his father more than supported everyone, he was smart enough not to press that point to his former teacher, who would have gone off on a long-winded rant over his supposed "smugness".

But aside from his injuries, Snape's mind was finally starting to clear, and his flash-backs becoming less regular, and lessening in intensity. Hence, he was able to procure himself various gigs going over chemistry lab papers and sending them back punctually without ever leaving the house. He was always more than good at what he did, and he found that his adeptness worked in either magical or muggle worlds. This enabled him to restore some of his pride, and take his mind off of his physical state.

Still, it was an ever-present concern, and at times unavoidable. He sometimes found himself frozen in pain from a nerve spasm, running from his neck down his whole body in a spasm, almost akin to an electric shock. Hermione would sense when it was at its worst, and get him his pain medicine and let her hand gently rest on top of his, so that if he wanted, he could work his fingers around hers and squeeze until the pain eased.

Once, she knew how very bad his state was when he could hardly hold his glass of water to take the pills, the shaking being too much. She promptly took it from him and held it for him to drink. He tried, brokenly, to protest, to insist he had it under control. But she was firm, in a gentle, no-nonsense way, and soon he found himself yielding, drinking from the glass she held for him. His eyes were locked onto hers, a mix of dying defiance and watering pain, and then some tender melancholy.

She started to get up, and he rasped, "Please…st-stay looking…at me…till it's gone…"

He tightened in the pain, and she patted his hand reassuringly, her own eyes starting to water. And in those moments, he felt he saw eternity in those compassionate eyes, something fathomless, something divine which he realized had rarely bothered to see in people, but which existed all the same.

"I…I would have come to your wedding…" he managed, righting against the sting of the pain. "It wasn't from spite…against you or Potter, whatever I might have said. I…I think you go together well. You…you keep the damn fool boy in check…" He tried a slight smile, which failed rather quickly. "I just…did not wish others to gawk at…at the death-eater headmaster in a chair. Would have just been a distraction. And I'm no good at weddings; too much the cynic. Can't help myself at that, afraid…"

She shook her head and started to pull out her phone. "I never did show you our album, did I?"

His eyes sparkled warily. "What have I…done to myself now?"

She smiled triumphantly. "Here, we can go through them together."

He exhaled. "I doubt…I'll be particularly adept at this."

"It'll be good, it'll take your mind off the pain," she rattled on, moving her thumb along the screen.

"By making me look at your husband? To increase an alternative pain?"

She gave him a scolding look, but it was accompanying by a teasing twinkle in her eyes. "I don't suppose it would be quite the same without some snark, would it?"

He shrugged, and then winced. She noticed, and a look of sympathy came to her eyes. "Anyway," she hurried, "here's our pre-wedding photos. See, it's at the reception hall. Here's the full shot, the wedding party all together."

He blinked. "Nice…dress," he tried, though it couldn't help but sound forced.

She seemed not to mind, and proceeded showing him about twenty shots of her and Harry outside the building, inside the building, at the church, in the church, on a bench, at a table, kissing, eating, and otherwise. He was unbelievably bored, but did his best to hold himself together. He had vowed to try harder, and at least his physical pain was subsiding at any rate…

Just then, Harry wandered into the living room. "What's up with you two?"

"What does it look like?" Snape challenged, finally faltering in his resolve. "You're image is involved; it must be a torture session…"

"Oh, come off it," Hermione huffed, continuing to flip through and smiling brightly when she came to one where Harry fed her a forkful of cake.

"Wow, I look amazing in that one," Harry commented on his own picture.

"I think you're supposed to comment…on _her_ ," Snape groaned. "Insufferable narcissist…"

"Well, I am, actually" he retorted. "I'm commenting on her good taste."

Snape rolled his eyes. "As the sages say, love must be _blind_."

"Now, please, gentlemen, no fighting!" she shushed them. Then she squealed in glee as she found the picture of Harry taking off her garter. Harry made some sort of comment about inherent sexiness; Snape looked thoroughly unimpressed. Harry hurriedly amended that she was the one who brought out said sexiness. Snape raised an eyebrow. Then somewhere along the line they wound up snuggled on the couch in front of him, studying the photos off in their little love-nest world, and flashing the screen at him intermittently, which sort of gave him a headache.

They were being silly, immature, young idiots, he thought to himself. They were staying up too late, anyway, he registered. They have work to do, courses to take should be in bed. They were annoying twittering love birds.

And then he had the overwhelmingly strange sense that he was grateful to be alive to be a part of it, just to be drawn into the silly, immature, quirky moments of their lives. No words could capture that, so he just swallowed back the unexpected lump in his throat.


	3. Vignette 3: Baby Shower

Vignette 3: Baby Shower

Nearly a year had elapsed by the time of Hermione's first pregnancy. And Snape was the first one to suspect it. He told her to get a test, and it proved his assumption. Hermione teasingly pressed him how he'd known, even before she had. He said it was a secret of his profession. In truth, he was in no way sure himself. He had just…known. New life. After so much death. Of course he would sense that…

Harry had nearly had a meltdown, a mix of panic and glee, and Snape chewed him out for being an incorrigible pansy, and that he'd best make something of himself lest the child turned out to be…well, just like his father. Then he went on to lecture Hermione on everything she should and should not eat in her condition. He'd been terribly strict about it, in a very stern teacher-like tone, and suddenly it was as if he were back at his class, setting down the law with an iron fist. But this time, Hermione smiled.

"Why in blazes are you smiling, you strange girl?" he demanded in mid lecture.

"Because," she said, "you care."

He shifted awkwardly, and mumbled, "Getting back to where I was…"

The next week came the get together with Ron and Ginny Weasley to announce the big news. They'd come over fairly regularly, but Snape always remained away from the action, down in his basement doing his chemistry gigs to avoid all the clamor. But this time, Hermione was determined that he should be a part of the get-together.

"Why don't you come up and say hello?" she coaxed him.

"They don't want to see me and you know it," he huffed, continuing his chemistry equation writing.

She raised her eyebrow suspiciously. "Or is that you don't want to see them?"

"A happy mutuality, no doubt."

"Oh, come on, won't you come up for me?"

"For you?"

She nodded. "This is my first time for this sort of thing. I want you to be a part of it."

He paused for a brief second, then kept writing. "You don't need me there, and you damn well know it. I would just…spoil everything."

She looked downcast. "Well, I won't force you. But…feel free to come up if you change your mind."

A half hour passed by. Scratch, scratch, scratch went his pen in the quiet, writing out his formulas. He heard the muffled sound of laughter on the floor above him. He swallowed, wondering if somewhere within himself, the safety of his orderly equations was becoming stagnant, suffocating. He tried to stifle back the thought, to keep working, but found something pulling him away. He had never felt that for years upon years. He had long ago decided he hated social gatherings. And social gatherings hated him. But right now, he felt a strange need, to be part of some silly flow he could not altogether understand…

And when he wheeled himself up the ramp, onto the first floor, and into the room where they were all lounging, they heard the sound of the chair, and their eyes locked on him. Seeing the look of shocked examination on Ron and Ginny's faces, he instinctively drained whiter than a sheet. It was the great secret of Severus Snape: he was a shy man, and one who dreaded the reaction of others when trying, roughly, to make gestures he was unaccustomed to. Yes, he was shy, deeply, profoundly, painfully, and the years of using his many mental walls of command, of contempt, or cunning had only made it keener when he tried, brick by brick, to tear them down.

But sometimes, they might still serve him well.

"Well…I see you've all still got jaws that fall open to catch flies. An elegant spectacle as ever. Should be made into a portrait."

And after a moment this dead-pan observation, Ginny chuckled softly, awkwardly, and the others joined in.

"Nice to see that you've…uh…y'know, you're managing…in your…"

" _Ron_ ," Hermione hissed.

"My…throne?" He tilted his head tellingly.

"He acts like it, believe me," Harry tossed in. "He hasn't lost any of his tyrannical streak, let me tell you what."

"Why thank you, Mr. Potter, your confidence in me is touching," he remarked crisply.

For several hours, Snape put up a brave front, and Hermione thought that, in spite of himself, he might just be finding the whole thing slightly enjoyable. He was snarking left and right, but not in a terribly bitter way. He kept a straight face, a flat tone, but she had learned the language of his eyes well, and knew that somewhere inside, he was part of a dance. The company seemed to be enjoying it, yes, enjoying his presence among them, like some stabilizing force, or vestige of normality. He certainly made their game of scrabble more interesting.

Sooner or later, they started to reminisce, tongue-in-cheek, about the old days, before the war. They called him the terror, but in good fun. They remembered him chasing him down for breaking curfews, for the test-tube cleaning detention sessions, for the times he had them miss out on Quidditch because of his lengthy homework assignments. He said it prevented them from being menaces to society. They ribbed him over how he had avoided social functions like the plague. He concurred, except he still believed the plague was a more merciful alternative to mixing all those obnoxious school chatter-boxes and high-and-mighty staff members.

The young loungers decided to start a movie marathon, something Snape thought was abysmally dumb, and the boys and girls had totally different ideas of what they wanted to watch. In the end they settled upon a space opera involving a galaxy far, far away, a lot of laser beam fighting, which Snape grumbled were poor excuses for wands. But the girls prevailed halfway through and wanted to switch to some musical set in revolutionary France which, Snape noted, made the characters demise a pleasant thing since the actors were incapable of holding a tune. He also made a point of yelling at Hermione for eating too much pizza and drinking too much butter beer in her condition.

At the end of the night, when Harry and Hermione started drifting towards the door with Ron, Ginny turned back to him, and all his old awkwardness returned like a shadow falling over his countenance. Perhaps now was the time she would tell him just how she really felt, tell him how much his own mistakes had caused everyone, how he could have done more during his brief, dark term as headmaster to prevent the carnage. He swallowed, and tapped with his fingers on the arm of his chair automatically, a deference of nerves.

Yes, yes, he had been acquitted, yes, he had only been part of a larger game, and he had tried, with all his cunning he had tried to keep as many of the students from harm as he could. As God was his witness he had. But he knew it had not been enough, and the act he had been forced to play lingered in the minds of others more keenly than the tortured reality. And he had been long-suspected and ill-loved ages before the school's occupation. He could imagine what she would say, and found himself wishing himself far away. His protective shell had become progressively weak over the past year, and he dreaded it being penetrated.

"This is teacher appreciation week," Ginny said quietly.

Snape snorted, believing her to be taking a jab. "Twist of irony, yes?"

But when he finally dared to meet her eyes, he saw she regarded him softly.

He blinked uncomfortably. "I am well aware…there is little to appreciate here."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because…it is true." He exhaled. "Believe me when I say…I would not have burdened anyone with my life. I would have been glad to give it…in exchange for some other life lost in the wars…some younger life, of more worth…"

He saw Ginny's lower lip tremble, knowing she was thinking of her brother Fred. Then, out of nowhere, she had bent over and embraced him. Snape froze. No one had done that other than Hermione, and it was totally unexpected given the circumstances. But it said everything that words failed to convey. And then she murmured, "Glad…glad you're here. He would be too."

"I…rather doubt that…" He inhaled. "He died thinking me…a monster."

"But he knows now. We all do."

She let him go and took a step back, but she graced him with a gentle smile that spoke of forgiveness for days gone by.

And he figured he was rather glad he came upstairs after all.


	4. Vignette 4: Not Like Him

Vignette 4: Not Like Him

It was the last month of Hermione's pregnancy when the man came to the door. Some instinct told her immediately it was from the Ministry of Magic, even before he pulled out his card and announced himself. She did not like him almost immediately. It was late at night, Harry was out teaching a night class assignment he'd been given as an assistant, and she didn't trust the man's face. She wanted her family left along from all the intrigue in that quarter. Her feelings about it became worse when he brought up Snape.

"What do you want with him?" she demanded. "He's been acquitted."

"I'd simply like to ask him a few questions, that's all," the man insisted.

"I don't see that to be necessary…"

"Mrs. Potter."

She turned and saw Snape had wheeled himself upstairs. How did he sense these things? His intuition could be freakishly uncanny.

"If you don't mind, I believe I can provide our visitor with what he wishes. If you'll…leave us alone together for a spell?"

She would live to regret doing as requested. She left them alone in the sitting room sure enough, but even in room, going over the list of things she would need for her upcoming hospital stay, she sensed the presence of magic in her house. It was a cruel kind. She rushed back out to the sitting room.

"What have you done to him?!" Hermione shrieked, seeing the blank look on his face, and the blood seeping through his sleeve, with drops splattered across his shirt and his cheek.

"Evidently, the brand still bleeds," the official stated lowly. "You can check it all you like; it won't come out of him, not even by cutting. It seems to be…bone deep, marrow deep…"

Snape winced but did not speak.

"How could you do that, how could you…?" Hermione's face was burning red, her voice spitting anger.

"You think he's so very innocent now, that everything he is changes because he's like a helpless old woman in a wheelchair, so very innocent…"

"He was cleared of the charges!" she shouted. "Stop torturing him!"

"Torture?" he growled. "Nothing like the torture my daughter went through in the last year, under the Dark Lord. She was only 13, and tortured to death. And he stood there and _watched_."

Hermione turned to Snape, and saw him swallow, his eyes pools of horror, barraged with images from the past. She knew it was true.

"He was a spy," she stated in a measured way. "You know that he did everything he could to stop what he could, but he couldn't stop everything…"

"He stood there and watched!" the man bellowed. "I saw his memories!"

"You invaded his mind?" Hermione gasped, shocked.

"I wanted to see it as he saw it," he ground out furious tears coming to his eyes.

"Get out, get out of my house!" she screamed. "You had no right to come here! I may be living as a muggle, but I am still a witch, and if you do not leave this instant, I'll hex you out! Now go, and never show your face here again!"

When he was finally gone, she set upon trying to clean and bandage his sliced arm. The man was right; the dark mark was still visible, even as the blood coalesced around the symbol of death. Snape himself looked as traumatized as he had before, his eyes staring out into nothing, his fist clenched.

Carefully, she thought it best to try and snap him out of it. "It wasn't your fault," she insisted. "It was according to Dumbledore's plan…"

"Damn Dumbledore's plan," he spat. "Any man…any _real_ man…would have broken rank…would have sacrificed anything, everything…to stop a child's pain, when it was at that level…" He pressed a hand to his face. "I just stood there, like a statue with a heart of stone…I just watched them screaming…I would try not to think about it, or I would go mad…I counted funny images in my head, sheep and oddly shaped clouds, flower petals, colors of the rainbow…like you do, trying to get to sleep…" He shivered. "When I tried sleeping, all the images would get jumbled…the pretty things, all covered in blood, and crying children…begging me to help them…and I don't, I _can't_ …and it burns so much, and I want it to stop…but I'm afraid that when it stops, I'll be numb to it, and be evil, like _him_ …but…but I know I am already, and there's no going back…"

He gasped a little as Hermione's hand touched his face, halting his nerve-driven ramble. He gazed into her eyes, looking for condemnation and finding only mercy.

"Why…why do you treat evil kindly?" he choked. "Why…?"

"Evil men do not suffer like this," she whispered. "Evil men do not mourn over such things."

"But…but I didn't do anything…to stop it…his daughter died in my sight, and I didn't stop it…"

"Could you have done anything? Honestly?"

"I…I don't know…sometimes I think…I might have tried h-harder…" He shut his eyes. "I wish I knew what it was I should have done and didn't do. At least I would know something other than confusion…so much I didn't do…oh…even in the beginning, when I took the mark, I was always…looking away from what I didn't want to see…they said I had a weak stomach…a weak heart…that I wanted the power with none of the price…" He inhaled sharply. "I should have left after the first raid they took me on…and what they did…I didn't shed the blood, but…but I just watched…and later on, vomited…but I still…stayed…I didn't know…where else to go…"

"If you hadn't stayed, we most likely wouldn't all be here," she reminded him. "You saved all our lives, and many more. Me, Harry, our baby now…we're all in your debt."

"Yes, but that makes me...a useful tool, not any sort of…man…" He winced, and Hermione noticed blood was seeping through the brand again.

She took up the arm and tightened the bandage. "You're hurting yourself going over and over this," she sighed. "Oh…I could hex that man from the Ministry. You were doing so well…"

"He…he lost a child," Snape ground out.

"And it wasn't your fault," Hermione blurted. "It was a tragedy, but they have no right to keep pounding you for what couldn't have been helped!"

"But I am…one of _them_ …" His voice was low, dark, and his eyes drifted to his bloody marked arm. "You don't…h-have to keep me," he whispered at last.

"Now none of that…"

"You're young, and so is Potter. You want your lives disrupted by Ministry people coming to…to see if it's still in my skin, to see if it still bleeds? You're going to have a child any week now. You want the dark mark in the same house as your child? You want to have to explain to your child…where the nasty cripple in the basement who scares little children came from, and what the mark means…?"

She laid a hand on his shoulder. "And when my baby's born," she stated, unfazed, "I'm going to make quite a fuss about putting you on the spot and making you hold him, and you're going to be complaining making wise cracks the whole time, and…" The look on his face nearly brought Hermione to tears. "And…and you'd best just make sure your arm heals up fast for that."

"Mrs. Potter…" Her name emerged from his throat like a crushed rasp.

"So…so," she hurried past her own thoughts, her own emotions. "What are your favorite flowers?"

"Snowdrops," he answered almost automatically, as if he were still under interrogation, and expecting some sort of punishment if he didn't give the correct answer. "They…bloom in winter sometimes. I…I used to like…roses…that's rather cliché…I…I never had a real garden…"

"Well, I was planning on trying for one this spring, if I'm not too warn out with baby care. We could have a rose bush."

" _We_ …could?"

 _Good God, he sounded so confused, so lost….delirious even…terribly unfeigned…_

"Yes, of course." She smiled at him softly. "What about a rainbow? What's your favorite color?"

"The color…between green and blue…or…blue and purple…I don't know…I always liked…in between colors…"

By now, if he were even vaguely himself, he would be decrying her as a prying nosy wench, asking a lot of infantile questions like a half-baked reporter from _The Daily Prophet_. But the broken shield was revealing the wounded mesh, and the soft, stained gauze trying to stop the bleeding.

So she asked again, "What…what are your favorite clouds?"

He closed his eyes. "Storm clouds," he whispered. "They are very dark…purplish gray, like bruises you try to hide…but they have a voice…and there is light flashing inside them…and rain is not always bad…they…they have always…followed me…" He clutched his chair arm. "I…I didn't want her to die, I…I didn't want any of them to die…it didn't pleasure me like it did… _him_ …" His voice wobbled at the thought of Voldemort's ghoulish face watching his innocent victims die. "I'm not him…oh, please, please, I'm not _him_ …"

"I know." She squeezed his hand. "We all know."

He gazed at her hand on his and exhaled shakily, almost in a mix between relief and resignation to the fact that he had just let someone hear the way his mind worked, sometimes, when he was trying very hard to keep himself was bleeding all over.

She bit her lip. "What…what's your favorite tea?"

"Peppermint," he mumbled, still answering as if under a self-imposed truth serum, his eyes fixated on her hand over his.

"Alright, I'll make some for us. Better put some chamomile honey in it too. I'll help you sleep."

"I'll…have nightmares…"

"No, no, you'll dream of nice things," she assured him gently. "I've got some raspberry tarts upstairs. Want some with the tea?"

He blinked, just staring out at her for a moment. "You'll make…a very good mother."

And Hermione found that those words touched her most of all, and a tear escaped her eye, looking rather like a jewel sparkling in the dark.


	5. Vignette 5: Firstborn

Vignette 5: Firstborn

It was late at night, but Snape was still awake, still in his chair, still working on his freelance chemistry work, writing down formulas, when he heard a commotion upstairs. His instinct snapped alert, and easily surmised what all the fuss was about.

 _Better go make sure the golden boy doesn't bungle this_ , he thought to himself, setting down his pen, rubbing his eyes strained from late night work, and wheeled himself upstairs. There he found Hermione standing with her hand over her round belly, a certain twitching concern in her eye, and Harry running around like a chicken without a head trying to piece together a throw bag that looked fit more for a rummage sale than a hospital stay.

Snape exhaled. "Seriously? You didn't prepare for this ahead of time?"

"I'm prepared, alright!" Harry blurted irritably.

"Yes, I can tell," he drawled. "Your efforts would surely put Ethelred the Unready to shame. For the first time in centuries, he genuinely has a contender for the title…"

"Would you quit treating me like a school boy!" Harry exploded. "You're in _my_ house after all, you arrogant git!"

"I'm the arrogant one, am I?" he sneered. "I think you're getting rather big in the head for your damned bloody britches to fit over…roughly where your eminent brain capacity is located…"

"Both of you, please, no fighting…ahh…" Hermione leaned against the end table against an early contraction.

"See, now you've upset Hermione! If something bad happens, it'll be your fault!"

Snape opened his mouth to spit something back, but then seemed genuinely wounded by accusation, and closed it again.

"Harry, now stop it, I'll be fine," Hermione chided him. "But look, you'd better go upstairs and get yourself a bag too, just in case."

"Uh…should I leave you alone?" he asked, hesitatingly.

"I'm not gonna dissolve for the next 5 minutes, okay?" she huffed. "Besides, the professor's here…"

"A lot of help he would be in an emergency," Harry snorted.

Snape shot him a look that read "that was the stupidest most ill-thought-out thing you could have possibly said in the universe, vagrant", and it had the effect of chastening Harry. After all, he had provided Snape with enough emergencies to deal with over the years, and the mere fact that he was alive bore testament to the old wizard's skill at damage control.

"Alright…okay, I'll get the bag," he mumbled, somewhat ashamed of himself, and headed upstairs.

"Harry….he didn't mean it. He's just nervous, that's all." She closed her eyes automatically at the pain, and leaned against the coach arm.

"For the love of Merlin, sit down and lie back, girl!" Snape snapped at her. "What are you trying to show off about? How you can go through the onset of labor on your feet?"

She didn't have to be told twice, leaning back into the coach. "I suppose it will be a boy," she remarked. "The way he's been kicking me…always trying to get attention, being active…"

"And you never tried that, young lady?" Snape snarked.

She snorted. "Yes, but I did it…all in my head."

"Well, you knew everything, of course," he mumbled sarcastically.

"Yes…I was always…up to something…oh…" She tightened at another full contraction. "This…this has got…to be a boy…" She smiled a little, trying to make light of the look on the professor's face.

"Is the pain…particularly bad early on?" he asked rather cautiously.

"No, I…no, it's not bad…I've been through worse things, I'm sure…I can handle it…I suppose I'm just…new to it…it's different than anything I've felt…" She brought her hand to her face as if shielding a few unexpected tears. "Alright, so you can start…start saying how much of a weakling I am now…getting all out of sorts out of something that women have been doing since the beginning of time…go ahead…"

What she didn't expect was to feel her hand being clasped. She gazed at his hand, stiffly but firmly holding hers, the same look on his face, somewhat colored by questioning now if this is really what he was supposed to be doing.

She looked him in the eyes. "You're softer than you act sometimes."

"I believe my grip is not soft at all," he retorted. "Besides, it's only fitting…" He paused awkwardly. "When I knew pain, you let me… _hold_."

"Ah, a turn for a turn, is that all?" she twitted him.

His eyes started to soften. "I…don't like to see you in pain."

She smiled softly and squeezed his hand back.

He turned his eyes down. "It'll be a boy, surely," he sighed. "High strung and always in trouble…no doubt with a chip on his shoulder, just like his father. I shall find him profoundly annoying, no doubt…and…" He drew a long pause. "I suppose you'll be expecting me to keep him out of trouble again, yes?"

"It's what you do best," she conceded with a chuckle. "You've always been…good with emergencies…" She flinched again.

"Damn," he grunted, then yelled up the stairs, "Potter! Get the hell down here, or do you want to be delivering your brat on your own?!"

"Alright, alright, here," he blurted, half-tripping down the stairs and spilling the bag on the ground. "You don't have to shout!"

"Well, what do you think YOU'RE doing, brainless one?!"

"Both of you, please, now pull yourselves together! Let's just…let's just go, okay?"

"Right," Harry agreed, helping to pull her up from the couch and escort her towards the door.

"Careful…driving," Snape muttered under his breath.

Hermione smiled over her shoulder at him. She had a knack for reading between the lines. "Harry will give you the ring if anything momentous occurs."

"No need, he'll probably just rouse me from my sleep," he grunted.

"Why you uncaring git…" Harry sputtered.

"Er…he'll call you anyway," Hermione assured, with a roll of her eyes, and they both headed out the door.

And lo and behold, Snape found himself worrying, and that alone made him worry that he was altogether losing his marbles. He shouldn't be worrying, no, not at all. That sort of thing was a bad sign, a very bad sign indeed…that was a sign that an attachment had started to sink in. And he had sworn to himself long ago he allow himself no other attachments. He was frustrated with himself.

But all that did nothing to stop him staying up all night next to the phone and nearly falling out of his wheelchair when it finally rang, with Harry, now having been united to Snape through common concern, had enough wherewithal to break the news that Hermione had come through okay, and somewhat incoherently with sheer hyperactivity, explode with the news that it was a boy, and he was a father…Snape tossed in something suitably droll about acting as if he deserved a badge for his wife's labor pains. But he was inwardly pleased nonetheless.

When they finally came back home from the hospital the following day, Snape was on the first floor, waiting for them. Harry seemed jittery yet excited and Hermione exhausted yet almost blissful, looking down into the carrier at her newborn. She sat down on the couch, seemingly enraptured by what she had brought home.

"You…alright?" he asked gingerly.

She nodded somewhat sleepily but happily. "I told you it would be a boy. He gave me quite a time of it for a while."

She reached into the carrier and pulled her baby up into her arms as it started to make gurgling noises. She looked very happy with it, although Snape surmised it looked something like a scruchy-faced newly-hatched dinosaur. He restrained himself from the commentary, however.

"So what…what did you name it? Or did you…?"

"He's named James, what do you think of that?" Harry announced in a challenging tone.

"Harry," Hermione blurted. "Could you…go in the kitchen and get me a sandwich? I'm rather hungry."

"Oh…sure."

Hermione noted the look on Snape's face, the look of having his imperfect efforts at being understanding slapped back in his face, and being told in so many words that this was his old rival's domain, even from the grave. And as always, "Snivelus" was sticking his snout into everyone else's business…She could hear his teeth grind…

"Want to hold him?" she asked carefully.

"Not especially," he grunted, tired of trying to be polite.

She gazed at him softly. "He's mine too, you know," she reminded him. "He's…he's part know it all, and he'll have to get used to you keeping him in line…hmm?"

Damn. Why did he feel so beholden to her? He hated feeling beholden. But her gentleness over the past year had worn away the strength and length of his defensive modes. And somehow or other, he found himself allowing her to position his one good arm to receive the little bundle.

"Just lean him up against you like so…there…that's not so bad is it?"

The baby seemed somewhat curious by the shift of perspective and wiggled a little bit.

"It's not going to throw up on me, is it?" he inquired blandly.

"We would hope not," she exhaled.

He stared down at the infants for a few moments, feeling rather nervous. It wasn't really all that heavy, but he was using only one arm, and was totally new to the act. But, he noted, the child seemed largely unafraid, just lost in its own little world of baby nonsense, sucking on one of its hands. Then Snape felt a rather odd emotion that made him even more comfortable. It wasn't so much that he thought the child was adorable, or anything so ridiculous, but it was just…so very helpless and harmless, and something like protective instinct was being roused…and he didn't altogether like the fact that he could feel protective over James the Second…it was damnably unnatural…he wanted to get this over with…

"Alright, fine, I'm holding it…how long do I have to…?"

Suddenly he looked up and saw there was a smile on Hermione's face and her cell phone was extended. Something like panic gripped Snape, and he sputtered, "Don't you _dare_ , young lady…!"

But the photo snap sound already resonated from the hand-held device, and he was shutting his eyes to the electric shock sensation, and she was observing it like a trophy of war. Snape shut his eyes closed from the flash.

"Damn it, what are you trying to do, blind me, woman?!" As if on cue, the baby started crying.

"Well, what are you trying to do, scare little James half to death?" she chided him, though not too harshly scooping her baby back from him, and patting him on the back. "Besides…this will be perfect for the refrigerator…"

"Miss Gra… _Mrs. Potter_ …"

"Oh, no," she chuckled, "not back to school again…"

"Hey, got the sandwiches," Harry announced, handing one to his wife and haphazardly tossing the other to Snape.

"What…what _is_ this, Potter?" Snape demanded, staring at the substance suspiciously.

"It's a sandwich," he stated.

"Yes, but what type?"

"Peanut butter marshmallow banana."

"What?! You're giving that to your wife fresh out of the hospital bed?"

"Actually, I quite like those," Hermione chimed in, giving Harry a peck on the cheek. "Thanks, dear."

Snape rolled his eyes. "I'll leave you to your smorgasbord," he grumbled, starting to wheel out of the room.

"Oh, and Professor…" Hermione called after him.

He turned back with a look of annoyance.

She smiled. "Thanks."

He exhaled in exasperation, shook his head somewhat indulgently, and wheeled away.


	6. Vignette 6: Carrot Cake

Vignette 6: Carrot Cake

It was Professor Snape's birthday. And he had a terrible cold. Not only that, but he was depressed and annoyed. The baby, now several months old, had spent most of the previous night crying its little lungs out, and regardless of him being on another floor, the sound had traveled with admirable speed. It wasn't only the child of course…his own inner demons seemed determined to give him no rest…

He now he felt too tired to get any real mental work done, and too awake to catch up on his lost hours of sleep. He was officially fit to be tied, and didn't want to be disturbed by anyone under the sun.

As he struggled to try and fish through some papers on his desk, he heard someone come down the ramp.

"What is it?" he snapped irritably, and then coughed.

"And happy birthday to you," Hermione responded with a teasing grin.

"No, not that," he groaned. "You know how I feel about such frivolity. Besides that, who even told you it was…that day? You certainly never knew before."

"Molly Weasley," she explained. "And she seems to know everything, even more than me."

"Damned nosy witch," he grunted, rubbing the place between his eyes, feeling like his headache was making him see double. When his vision cleared, he saw that a plate of something that smelled rather sweet had been put down in front of him on his desk.

"I knew you're not the frivolous kind, but this isn't a frivolous dessert," she explained. "Besides, carrot cake is your favorite."

"What makes you think so?" he mumbled.

"Because," she started, "Molly observed you at a lot of PTA meetings over the years, and while you weren't much on small talk, and hardly ever touched the refreshment table, she said you did wind up taking a slice of carrot cake once."

"It…was a one-off. I hadn't eaten breakfast, and my tea had been cold, I was busy with the stupid meeting and failing a lot of below abysmal term papers…"

"Right, well," she sighed. "It'll have to do, anyway."

He furtively glanced at the cake then down at his paralyzed hand awkwardly. "I…I never made much of birthdays," he confessed. "Always just another year closer to dying, really…another physical process weakens, the brain functions slow…all just…trundling towards shut-down…and I'm further along, and less worth the wear…" He broke down and coughed into his sleeve.

"Now stop that," she chided him, grabbing him a tissue from a nearby box.

"Why? It's true," he stated in a gravelly voice. "Don't you care about truth these days? Look at it scientifically, like a germ under a microscope, and you'll see the size and sum and worth of me. Not a very…pleasing prospect, to be sure."

"You're not a germ," she retorted. "You're a person….a very disagreeable one sometimes, but still…"

"And what is a person…but so very many flashing lights in the head, or forgetting and remembering, and fear that everything will just shut down one day, when the battery finally dies?"

"You're the king of manic depressants," she sighed.

"Prince," he corrected her, and she noticed a slight, almost unperceivable gleam in his eye.

She cliqued her tongue. "Haughty, very haughty, as always…"

Then, quite out of nowhere, he found her going for a hug.

"Mrs. Potter, I…I have a cold, do you want to catch it?"

"Hmm?" She pressed her face into his shirt and held his fragile frame tight.

"I have a cold," he said, very softly, and it hurt.

"So…all the more reason you need a hug," she decided.

He shut his eyes tight. They were watering a little…had to be the cold. He sniffled; naturally, it was the cold too. But…but did the sudden motion of his good arm cradling her back all chalked up to an early spring sickness? Perhaps fever made warmth…desirable? Perhaps he was a touch delirious…but he liked the feeling, not just of receiving but of giving it back, of being able to give it back. He wanted it stay, that feeling, that ability, somehow stay forever, and keep him all tight-wrapped and wrapped around, as if knit into a wool blanket, never to be cold again.

 _Please don't be a dream…please don't be so many flashing bulbs of a broken computer, please, not just so many crossed up wires stimulating the senses, tricking us all with a sense of self…be real…be…real….please…_

Suddenly his propriety snapped back on and he pulled away his hand, shrinking back against his chair, as if he had down something terribly wrong.

"I…I'm sorry. I…should not have…have touched you."

Hermione looked utterly puzzled. "What on earth do you mean?"

"I…overstepped myself…I'm sorry…" His eyes darted over to his arm.

"It was a hug, professor! Hugs do involved touching; there's no shame in that…" Now she sniffled a little herself. "I always rather wanted you…to hug me back."

He looked stunned. "Why?"

She shook her head. "I…I've come to care. Don't you know that by now?"

He averted his eyes again. "It's…it's the arm. It's been…hurting again." He looked at her full in the face, and confessed with cutting honesty, "It scares me. I didn't want…didn't want to touch you with it."

She exhaled. "Let me see it, hmm?"

He watched her warily as she rolled up his sleeve, and she gasped at the sight of the brand.

"Professor, what have you done to it?"

It had obviously been recently sliced and scraped, and the healing process was incomplete at best, causing scabs and dried blood to crisscross the dark mark that was still visible for all his efforts.

"I…I tried to see if I might at least…make a bit of art out of it," he chuckled darkly. "The razor I thought might…work for that…"

"What are you trying to do, get an infection?" she huffed. "I'm going to get disinfectant wipes…"

"You needn't bother, it's just…"

"I bloody well am going to bother, and don't you dare tell me not to!" she shot him down, and then stormed off to get what was needed.

When she returned, she cleaned it off with the alcohol and put some sort of ointment on it and bandaged it up. "Now, you let that heal up," she ordered him. "And don't let me catch you playing with sharp things again, understand?"

He kept his eyes focused on his arm, strangely.

She huffed and took the side of her chin in her hand to force him to make eye contact. "Do you understand me?"

He winced a little, but relented with a nod.

"Good." She smiled a little, and reached for something in her pocket. "And these are for you."

"Mrs. Potter, you can't be serious!"

"And why not?"

"I don't want them!"

"So?"

"I don't need them…"

"I beg to differ. You've been squinted more lately, and have a very bad habit of working under dim lighting. So there," she slipped the glasses onto his face, and he jerked back.

"Oh, go away!" he snapped and swatted at her. "Go pester your husband or offspring for a change!"

She sighed. "You're worse than Harry and the baby combined sometimes."

"Thank you." His sense of indignation soon turned to guilt as she started to leave. "Thank you for the cake," he mumbled very lowly.

She smirked a little. "That was the easy part. Now you better eat it and not let it turn into a paperweight."

When she was gone, he reluctantly did as he had been told. Actually, he was quite glad he did. It had been a long time since he'd had anything vaguely resembling birthday cake, and he found himself almost mindfully eating it, noting the texture, the flavor, the carrot and spice and walnuts and cream cheese icing.

And then somehow it caught in his throat a little as a lump welled up there, and he didn't know why. Why should carrot cake make him want to cry? Because somehow, he felt, you couldn't dissect it under a microscope. Oh, you could try, but it couldn't possibly do it justice. You might be able to dissect taste and texture and all these things, but this carrot cake…surely there was something beyond all that about it.

Was heaven made of carrot cake? That sounded very silly, but very nice all the same. Whatever, surely he wasn't going to heaven, even if there was a heaven, he wasn't near nice enough…but if there was, he wanted it to have carrot cake like this. So there, and with that thought on his mind, he found himself drifting off to sleep still in his chair with his new glasses sliding down his nose.


End file.
